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Far away over the hills in Dragonville, Beethoven’s 5th drifted from the open window of the small hut that sat on the outskirts. The tarmac road that ran from the town had tailed off into moss and lichens a few hundred metres back, leaving the place more or less completely cut off from the rest of dragon civilisation – exactly as its inhabitant wanted.
With a gentle clang, George slid a tray of pitta bread dough into the oven then promptly took a seat at the table. He glanced to the clock. It had just gone quarter-past and previous attempts had shown him his pockets of wholegrain deliciousness would be ready in around seven and a half minutes. Nine twenty... three, he noted. Wearily, he looked around the kitchen. What to do? There was, of course, the yeasty warzone in the sink to contend with, not to mention the collateral damage to the countertops. However, as his ankles now matched his knees in width, staying seated seemed sensible.
Grimacing slightly, George leaned over to the sideboard and smartly turned the volume dial on the record player all the way to ‘off’. He sighed deeply. A few moments of respite while he waited for the oven to beep. A violin-free period for nothing but quiet reflection and meaningful contemplation. An opportunity – perhaps – to try to get to grips with who he was and where he was going and ultimately, for what purpose had he been placed here, upon this huge, revolving planet...
Suddenly, he spotted something nestling beneath the avocado-laden fruit bowl – his bi-monthly periodical, Dragon’s Health Magazine. Still in the cellophane wrapper! “Aha!” he exclaimed. Reading about self-improvement – a most-productive use of his time!
George dragged free the magazine and began his betterment browsing. Ok, so perhaps he didn’t resemble the incredibly-toned dragons featured on the glossy pages, but he certainly shared their obvious body-confidence issues – it was just that he didn’t bother to do anything about his. It was fine, his muscles were underneath. Five tons and fat was fashionable right now. Casually, he flipped to the centre spread. ‘Fire-breathing: Double your eruption with the Pyro diet.’ He began to scan, glancing to the photograph of the huge-chested beast who was belching out an arc of flames about six-times its body length. Undeniably impressive.
A minute passed and now the smell that had started to drift from the oven was making George’s mouth water. Still poring over the images of scaly beefcakes doing their workouts, he slipped his green hands beneath the red and white tablecloth and began to vigorously rub them together. Possessing foot-long talons did make getting rid of all the leftover dough after a hard-core baking session rather a laborious task.
He carried on with his palm polishing, still trying to find his optimum rhythm. “Mmm!” He pouted as his claws began to feel smoother and smoother. “Wonderfully satisfying!” Momentarily, he brought a hand back up and turned the page. ‘Big buff thighs!’ he read. Goodness! Those things were massive! He would have silky-smooth fingers after all this. Perhaps rub a little faster? “Mmmmm! Oh yes!” The simple things in life!
Now the table was starting to rock.
George pressed on, trying not to think about the state of his floor tiles. Oh yes! Oh yes! He could feel the heat building up in his hands. And those pittas were beginning to smell divine! He was really salivating now. This was what making your own bread was all about! This was why you went through all that hassle! His forehead was starting to glisten. He bit his bottom lip. This dough-scale exfoliation felt sooo good! Oh yes! Oh yes! Oh ye—
CRASH! The whole house shook.
“RAAAAR!”
SMASH!
“Go! Go! Goooooo!”
George leapt from his seat, knocking it backwards, and then dashed to the window just in time to see an object whiz past and crunch loudly against the side of the potting shed. “My prize butternut!” he gasped. “In the garden? In broad daylight? The horrendous, filthy brutes!”
Striding towards to the door, George hastily undid his frilly floral apron and tossed it over the back of a chair. Quickly, he slid back the first bolt, then the second and third, and finally the chain, then creaked it open.
“Excuse me!” he called, raising his nose to peer above the greenery. “I say! The yooou-ths! The yooou-ths rrr-unning amok in the veg-e-table plot! Could you not...”
Now the garden was empty.
George scanned the undergrowth for signs of movement. Despicable, feral, little fuc—
WHHHOOOSSSHHH!
“WOOOAH!” A pumpkin skimmed down past George’s cheek and exploded at his feet, splattering both him and the doorstep with its mushy insides.
Shocked, he looked back over his shoulder – just in time to see a girthy cucumber looming towards him. “No... no... AAAAARGH!”
SPLAT!
The sound of scrambling came from above, followed by two slates smashing onto the patio in quick succession.
Stepping back across his perfectly-manicured lawn, George swiped the gooey mess from his cheek and nose, and flicked it across the path. “You!” He glared at his roof in disbelief. “You disgusting...ly disadvantaged individual! Come down! Come down at once!”
On the edge of the sagging eave balanced a young, thick-set female dragon with excessive daubings of lipstick plastered across her podgy, blue face. Eyes wide open, mouth agog and legs shaking, the dragon stared directly at George making him swallow hard. Slowly, she began to lift her arm and as she did, an object became visible in her hand.
“DON’T YOU DARE!” Arms now clutched over his head, George waddled away across the grass to make himself a harder target for whatever projectile was coming his way. “Incredibly anti-social conduct!” he scolded. “Get... get down here this second! Come on! I’m a sporting chap. Off my land on the count of three and we’ll attribute this the fault of society and say no more about it. One! Two—”
“Hello!” she grunted.
George blinked. “What?” Briefly, he dropped his claws to look over the top. ‘Hello’? Was that it? Dislodging his shingles and the grubby reprobate couldn’t even manage a ‘Hello, sir’?
The young dragon forced a smile and, accompanied by a sickening creaking of wood, began to tightrope along the edge holding a phone to her head. “Yeah, I’m on his roof!” she whispered. “Yep. Right here, watching me! He’s got the tablecloth stuck to his stomach.”
George cringed. What had she seen? No, don’t even go there. He fixed her with a steely look. “What on ruddy earth do you think you’re playing at, missie?” Actually, was it a ‘missie’? He squinted. Hmm, possibly? Probably safer to sit on the fence and not mention it again. Quickly, he folded his arms and put on his best extremely-cross-but-could-be-won-over-with-a-little-effort face. “I insist you remove yourself from my gutterage, forthwith! And incidentally, this is a sa-rrrong!”
The dragon, still on the phone, looked down and shook her head. “Not on your life, you big salad-tosser!”
George winced. Dietary-related discrimination. Ok. What to do? What to do? He looked around. There, propped up against the shed, was the ladder he used to trim his apple trees. That would do it. “Now come down this instant!” he demanded. Purposefully, he took a step over. “Or there’ll be some pretty serious trouble!”
“N... no way!” Hurriedly, she began to ascend towards the chimney stack.
George reached the shed and looked back to see the dragon still hadn’t taken heed of his request. “I mean it,” he called. “Don’t make me come up there.”
Now perching precariously on the cowl, the dragon looked down. “G... go back inside and I... I’ll come down by myself,” she called, clinging to his weather vane. “I um... doubt that thing’s even strong enough to hold your weight!”
George tutted quietly to himself. A size-based insult, coming from her?! She wasn’t doing herself any favours. As he hoisted the ladder from the floor, he began to feel adrenaline running through his veins. “There’ll be severe consequences,” he explained. Too right there would be; he was more than familiar with the law on dealing with trespassers. “This is your Last Warning! And for the avoidance of doubt, that’s a defined term as per section three of the Protection of Residential Property Act 1967, better known colloquially as ‘You’re My Bitch Now!’”
The dragon stared back and once again lifted the phone to her head while trying to hold on with only one arm.
For a few moments, George stood there watching her squirm. Home-security scholar that he was, he was well aware that he needed to wait at least four and three-quarter minutes between giving a Last Warning and administering any lethal hand-to-hand self-defence – not that it would go that far hopefully but it was always good to have carte blanche with these things. That said, waiting much longer also didn’t seem wise; the roof was already creaking badly and if it gave way, the fat criminal would probably sue him for loss of self-esteem. Plus, there were the pittas to think of.
A glob of teary trespasser snot landed silently on George’s head. Instantly, he felt his temperature rise. A broom handle! Yes, that would do it. There was precedent for that; the so-called ‘Just cleaning off the moss’ defence. He could go and grab the big sweeping brush and crack on with his annual maintenance, oblivious to the presence of anyone who ought not to be there in the first place. No. No. George quickly forced the utterly permissible idea from his mind. Given her position and the roof’s slope, she would likely barrel directly into his rockery, where he had spent nearly an hour planting bulbs only last week. Now, if he could coax her along a bit, on the other side it was just tarmac...
A rustling at the bottom of the garden dragged George from his legal loopholing fantasy.
CRASH!
“OIII!”
“LOOK AT US!”
“YOOO HOOO!”
Five dragons leapt out of the bushes on the other side of the fence and blasted flames into the air.
“YEEE-HAAA!” called the dragon on the roof, jumping up and hurriedly swiping-dry her eyes. “Told you I’d do it! You all owe me a fish lump surprise from the Tapeworm Roulette sushi bar!” With a huge leap, she flung herself from the guttering and down into the carrot patch, leaving deep footprints in the mud, then raced down the garden and knocked the gate flat in her attempt to vault it.
Charging down the path, George reached the boundary just in time to see the pack stampeding into the distance. “Why, you... you... you beastly unfortunates!” he yelled. “You disgusting destitutes! You disgraceful dregs!”
From down the track, the roars increased as George’s rebuke fuelled their excitement.
“You just wait until I see your parents!” he continued, his anger suddenly spiking as he noticed the still-steaming insult that had been deposited next to the celeriac. “If I catch you in here again, I’ll... I’ll...” Electrify the fence? Bear-trap amongst the broccoli? Crossbow connected to a courgette? George stopped, took a deep breath, and silently counted to three.
Walking along the previously-spotless, now mud-splattered fence, he furrowed his brow at the carnage. With a groan, he picked up a set of vegetables that had been arranged into a distasteful reproductive image – although considering that dragons barely wore clothes and certain none below the waist, it was surprisingly inaccurate. Teeth gritted, he threw them onto the compost. “Such a waste,” he muttered. “Not even ripe yet.”
Wearily, George began to try to reattach the trampled runner beans to their scorched canes but soon gave up. Why? he asked himself. Why did they have to behave like this? Why couldn’t they just stay in their grotty concrete town and leave him alone in the nice green bit on the outskirts? With a heavy heart, he scooped up the remains of a politically-incorrect garden gnome, then set off back towards his hut.